12 Crimes of Christmas
by Winter Winks 221
Summary: My responses to Hades Lord of the Dead's awesome Sherlock Holmes Advent Calendar 2018!
1. Mystery of the Missing Letter

Prompt: A mystery Holmes can't solve

From: sirensbane

….

Author's note: This is just a silly little piece I came up with. It has an equally silly backstory to it, which I will explain at the end. I hope you enjoy!

"The letter M, Watson. It is the most important letter to note."

"Ah, yes, the most infamous letter of the alphabet, Holmes," I reply, looking across at my friend and companion, Sherlock Holmes- who, even now, had the files of Moriarty spread across his knees. It was spewing all sorts of miscellaneous scribbles- all accounting for each and every vile deed that man had committed against humanity so far.

Some of the papers even brush against the detective's ankles, begging for attention to be paid to them- but all was in vain, for Holmes bore a concentrated gaze on the files right in front of him.

"Indeed, dear boy; I am merely updating my notes regarding the most recent case of Moriarty attempting to assassinate the gracious Queen." He informs me, without looking up at me.

"Rightly so, Holmes!" I reply, watching my friend's pencil dance across the flyleaf; before I in turn, resume my work on preparing another of Holmes' cases for publication. We work for nearly two and a half hours in silence on our individual projects; each silently thankful for the other's company.

…..

It was thus at 11:30 that night when I find my head drooping onto my chest for at least the fifth time in a row. Frustrated, I force myself to stir, in the hopes of reinvigorating my blood and resume my writing.

"Watson, go and get some sleep- you're not going to get any more work done tonight." Holmes drawls.

"Now steady on, Holmes- I just need to move a little and I should be fine."

"Watson- you have not written anything- let alone anything of worth- for at least 40 minutes. You will go to your bed willingly, or else." He tells me sternly, still engrossed in his files on Moriarty; though I do wearily note that some of the papers were stacked haphazardly across his chair and around the surrounding perimeter.

"I will finish this, and"-

Although my friend's facial expression remains as neutral as granite, I watch Holmes' eyes dart dangerously towards his prized Stradivarius, resting peacefully beside him. Intent rippled through grey irises, and I realize that the attempt to stay and finish my work will be futile.

"Very well, I will retire," I sigh, rising from my armchair. "Goodnight, Holmes."

"Goodnight, Watson. And leave your notes here," he adds masterfully, pointing towards the mantel. "I will refrain from reading them at this moment: but I will not have you stay up half the night over this sentimentality you write of our adventures."

Stung, but too tired to argue with Holmes, I surrender my writings to him. Nodding in satisfaction, he continues to sort his notes into indecipherable piles and mounds- and that was how I left him.

….

As the sun cast its beams of gold through my curtains the next morning, I shrug back the covers and wearily wash dress and shave, stumbling through the actions as though my body had assumed automatic control over my mind.

Once I was suitably presentable, I make my way into the living room, hoping breakfast and coffee- particularly plenty of the latter- would revitalize me enough to get through the day.

"WATSON!"

I throw open the door, alarmed at my friend's call. I was half expecting that someone had somehow snuck in and shot Holmes, and that I would find my poor friend bleeding to death on the floor next to the breakfast table.

But instead, I see Holmes standing at the table, with a face both as pale and as livid as I had ever seen it in the time that we had lived together here at 221B.

"Now Mr. Holmes, I must ask you to be reasonable!" Our good landlady protests, trying to mollify my irate companion.

"What's happened, Mrs. Hudson?" I ask in alarm.

"Oh, Dr. Watson, I'm afraid that some belligerent editor has decided to mock Mr. Holmes in the paper."

"The scoundrel!" I burst out, before I quickly calm again. "My apologies. What did he say about you, Holmes?"

"Read for yourself." Holmes answers grumpily. "I'm going to ensure no officer at Scotland Yard reads this!"

"What about Mycroft?" I ask; but Holmes had slammed the door shut, causing the teacups to ring.

"Oh, I'm afraid Mycroft Holmes was the one who sent the telegram regarding the… gaffe," Mrs. Hudson answers, trying hard to stifle a giggle.

"Whatever is so amusing, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Read the paper, dear."

And so, I did. And when I finished the article, I could barely contain the giggles.

….

It was nearly lunchtime before Holmes returned, looking both baffled and determined.

"Did you succeed in your inquires, Holmes?" I ask casually.

"No," he replies, sulkily, flopping into the chair opposite mine. "It turned out Mycroft got the paper into Scotland Yard well before I got there. Lestrade will mock me for evermore."

"And did you find out who or what was responsible for it happening to begin with?"

"Well, I questioned the editors; but they all swear that they had nothing to do with this mischief." Holmes answers, lighting his pipe. "I cannot make head nor tail of this, Watson."

As amusing as the situation was, I did feel a little sorry for my friend. After all, I had a feeling that I was responsible for this comical affair, but I was not letting on to Holmes about my guilt.

"I'm sure something will emerge." I reply, comfortingly, giving him a smile.

"You are right, Watson." He replies, brightening a little. "After all, what is a mere M?"

Considering his remark from the previous evening, I was more than ready with a dose of what Holmes calls my 'pawky humour.'

"Well, old chap, it could very well mean the difference between being a detective and being a gravedigger, Sherlock Holes." I answer solemnly, trying hard to refrain a smile from showing on my face.

….

He still doesn't know it was I who accidentally submitted a manuscript with the 'M' missing from his last name.

So that was how I learned that 'M' really is the most important letter in the alphabet- Moriarty was not involved in any way…

…..

:D

For some reason, whenever I type out Holmes' name, I often end up typing 'Holes' instead of 'Holmes' so that's basically the reason for this little piece in existence! (hehe, that wasn't even long!) But I hoped you liked it, and…

May the countdown begin!


	2. A Strange Tobacco

Ash

….

Lestrade scratched his chin in bafflement. He couldn't make head or tails of this peculiar case.

One man somehow died whilst smoking his much- prized pipe.

Not only had the man died under the most mysterious and baffling circumstances ever witnessed in a domestic environment, but there was no Holmes available to come and 'assist' the police force.

The bloody fool caught pneumonia whilst on a case, and now poor Watson was worrying himself half to death for his friend's life and health.

Lestrade made a mental note to give the consulting detective a strike for driving the poor doctor into an early grave- metaphorically speaking, of course.

"What are you thinking of, Lestrade?" Asked Gregson, with a smirk.

The first inspector looked up at his rival. "Well, I was thinking I'd like to strike Holmes for putting the poor doctor through misery needlessly." He said darkly. Getting pneumonia was no joke, and Lestrade was sympathetic to the consulting detective's plight- but the pneumonia had also been brought upon Holmes because the bloody idiot wouldn't even so much as wear a muffler when the Four Seasons deemed it time to don furred armours against bullet fast blizzards and shrieking winds.

"For once, I concur," said Gregson thoughtfully. "Any luck on the evidence?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Holmes would have found some clue we always seem to miss and perform his deductions. We must keep looking; however. One of us will find something." He added determinedly, crouching on the floor with a magnifying glass- a Christmas present from Holmes.

Gregson nodded. He admired his rival's tenacity; no matter the peril they faced. And so, with that in mind, the two resumed their search, carefully examining every possible square inch of the room.

Although nowhere near a match for Sherlock Holmes' gifts, the two inspectors each possessed qualities which worked together beautifully.

Sadly, their egos were not one such quality. In fact, they were the reason they didn't work together more often- when they disagreed on something, it was difficult for either man to back down to the other. So, they only worked together if they needed to.

Often Holmes would be out of commission for some reason or other.

They couldn't even rely on Inspector Hopkins either- the closest they had to Holmes working in Scotland Yard. The lad was busy solving a case of disappearing bodies from the morgue; along with Inspector Bradstreet and Inspector Bell.

…

"Well, I'll be blazed," muttered Gregson. He smirked as he watched Lestrade continue to crawl on the floor, examining the leg of a coffee table.

"Are you done, Lestrade? Shall I put your leash on?" He asked teasingly.

"Quiet you," Lestrade huffed, swinging his head round to glare at his partner/rival. Unfortunately, in his grumpiness, he forgot about the coffee table

BANG!

…

Lestrade let off a stream of rather ungentlemanly curses, his hand flying to his now throbbing temple. To make matters worse, the force with which Lestrade banged his head also sent the coffee table shaking, causing a small, ugly ashtray to fall right onto the floor- smashing it to pieces and sending the ashes scattered everywhere.

"And Holmes deems you worthy the best of the worst?" Gregson asked sarcastically, watching as Lestrade scrambled to his feet, still gingerly rubbing his head. "Honestly, Lestrade, this was not the case to be without Holmes and Watson."

"It never is," Groaned Lestrade. "This wasn't the case to be working with you, either."

"The feeling is mutual, old man," Replied Gregson, folding his arms across his chest. "Just as well you're not Holmes, then- there's not much in there worth protecting," He smirked, tapping his head and giving Lestrade a knowing look.

Lestrade just growled, trying not to let on that the insult stung. Holmes was far more withering with his words; but he still hated his office rival thinking that he was just a bumbling fool who couldn't solve cases, much less injure himself in the process.

He was about to consider another option, which he wasn't sure what to do; but then, the ashes suddenly caught his eye.

Something seemed off about them. They didn't look blindingly extraordinary, but he knew that they didn't look like tobacco ashes- and at once, that set one question running through his mind.

What was this man burning?

Gingerly, he allowed his fingers to run through the ash, allowing it to fall between his fingers as seconds from the hands of Father Time himself.

It wasn't tobacco, but it seemed familiar, all the same. And it gave him a sinister feeling….

Lestrade racked his brains, frantically piecing together possible conclusions for the strange substance at his knees.

And then, as though a pile of bricks had been dropped on him, the answer came to him. The inspector blanched, jumped to his feet and began alternating between frenzied orders and ever more cursing.

"Lestrade, what's the matter? I know I went too far before, but there's no need to"-

"No time for that, Gregson!" Lestrade barked, so suddenly that Gregson almost jumped out of his skin. "We need to go and get a cab- now!"

"Why, Lestrade? What"-?

"Our murder victim is actually a corpse smoker!"

He was out of the door and hailing a cab before Gregson could actually process what Lestrade had said.


	3. Moving In

Prompt: Moving In

From: Domina Temporis

….

After the case known as 'A Study in Scarlet', during which I had ended up in an unexpected partnership with the enigmatic and peculiar Sherlock Holmes, I was required to bring my possessions around to Baker Street; fortunately, they, like the new purpose in my life, were meager; all I had to my name was a small pension from the army, my revolver, some clothes, my journal containing my war memories and fanciful scribblings, and an old battered copy of Edgar Allan Poe's works- all bundled in my suitcase.

It was with this- and little more- that I finally ended up at 221B Baker Street to begin a new chapter of my life with my new flatmate. Whether this period would imprison me or liberate me, I had yet to tell.

Holmes' steely grey eyes scrutinized me and my shabby suitcase from the armchair by the fire, smoke drifting lazily from his pipe. "Is that all you have, Doctor?" He asked me, matter of factly.

"I believe so," I replied, trying to quirk a smile, trying to hide what I was missing the most of all from my new flatmate. "I didn't really have a lot, in the Army. It doesn't allow for a lot of possessions."

"Except for gifting you with unwanted wounds, I expect." Holmes answered dryly, leaning over his armchair to pick up a poker and poke the coals in the fire.

I stiffened involuntarily at that comment. As I was only freshly home from my service in Afghanistan before the affair of the case mentioned above, I had not yet recovered from a Jezail bullet to my shoulder.

Had he known? Had he used his otherworldly methods to note that I had come home wounded?

' _Don't be ridiculous, John!'_ I scolded myself. _'No man could ever conceive such methods of thinking! It must be some trick.'_

But even I couldn't deny that Holmes' method, no matter how strange it seemed, had a rational method behind it. Besides, if it really was a trick, albeit a clever and elaborate one, even a man like Holmes would not have been able to keep it hidden for long.

"For Heaven's sake, Watson- stop dithering in the doorway," Holmes snapped impatiently. "I have no patience for a man who dawdles so- not when he could be useful."

I was about to retort; but then I decided it might not be wise to do so- not at the beginning of our agreement. I resolved to remain kind to my new flatmate when I could- for it seemed to me he was not a man inclined to company.

"Very well, Holmes," I conceded, stepping inside before turning around to shut the door behind me.

"And I hope you will be so kind as to leave the door a crack- in case I have clients." He ordered.

I obeyed, before I shuffled along to sit in the free armchair opposite from my eccentric flatmate. And, in truth, I did feel a lot better when I sat down beside the fire and pulled out my book from my suitcase before settling down to read for a while.

Although, as I turned page after page, I became aware of Holmes watching me intently from his woolen nest, like a bird of prey eyeing up the plumpest mouse in the field.

"Can I help you, Holmes?" I asked wryly, looking up from my book.

"Not necessarily, Doctor. Just making my deductions." He sniffed, his grey eyes glinting coldly at me. I watched his legs shift around in his perch. He really was an odd fellow, Holmes. I still couldn't understand anything about him.

Not that I had any knowledge of the man to go on with, anyway.

"I thought you deduced all there is to know about me when we first met." I remarked, remembering my initial encounter with him in the morgue at St. Bart's.

"No, that was just preliminary information, Doctor." He replied, waving his hand dismissively before reuniting his pipe with his teeth. "I am merely seeking out fresh data from you so that I may know you better."

"Why don't you just ask me?" I said, with a laugh. My new flatmate suddenly looked abashed at my reaction- but it did not last longer than mere seconds. I thought this rather peculiar, but I ignored it in favour of talking to my companion, "Holmes, as interesting as your gift is, I don't think I could live up to you observing every little detail about me." I continued gently.

"But that is what I do. I observe." Holmes replied, with a huff, mixed with a note of petulance at my refusal to be his 'experiment' or whatever he was thinking me to be at this moment.

"I'm not saying to stop doing it- I just feel it'd be nice if we could have decent conversation with each other." I replied carefully. As a man fond of good company, I was unwilling to have a sullen flatmate who rarely spoke to me to lodge with for months on end- even if he had comfortable rooms and the kindest housekeeper I have ever encountered.

….

It seemed Holmes didn't know how to respond to me. Instead, he just seized a folder near him and started rummaging through it, muttering angrily to himself- he sounded like a hive of ill-tempered bees preparing to sting their amateur keeper for disturbing them from their golden sleep.

Fearing I had affronted him, I sat in my armchair quietly, continuing to read my battered and dog-eared Edgar Allan Poe, wondering if I had made a mistake, after all, in moving in with the masterful and yet mysterious Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Brother Mine

Prompt: Fragile

From: Wordwielder

A/N: Got some inspiration to write brotherly fluff from constantly re-watching Over The Garden Wall- I hope you enjoy my latest update!

….

In my fourteen years and 6 ¼ years of living, I had never seen my younger brother so melancholy.

I noted it all started on Friday morning; when Sherlock did not tell me about badger dissections or how he was progressing in the learning of the art of deduction over breakfast.

Normally, I would have savoured the peace and quiet; but seeing one's younger sibling in a depressive episode does affect one's appetite, I fear. But what I did observe was that his shoulders were taut, and his eyes had more bags than Mother could keep in her armoire, which led to the conclusion that he had not slept at all the previous night and he was obviously tense from a combination of fear and stiff muscles from insomniac issues.

My suspicion only grew when the three of us; that is, Sherlock, Nanny and I, to school. As Sherlock's school was nearer, he was to be dropped off here, and I would carry on to my own school, which was only ten minutes away.

Every step we took, Sherlock seemed to withdraw further into himself; until not even I could reach him.

And when we reached the gate, Nanny said goodbye to my brother.

"Well, have a nice day, dear," she smiled, ruffling his black locks before gently ushering him through the gate. Which was easier said than done; for he had suddenly gone lock-kneed. "Goodbye, my sweet," Nanny said, waving goodbye at Sherlock. He waved back, almost uncertainly.

"I shall see you later, Sherlock," I added, trying to add a little smile of encouragement. I hated smiling or showing indeed, showing any emotion at all; but Sherlock somehow influenced me to show some sentiment on occasion; such are the dangers of little brothers, doing exactly what you do not want them to do.

"Bye, Mycroft," he mouthed, before he was led away by a stern looking, beak-nosed, grey haired woman.

I watched as Sherlock plodded along helplessly behind her.

"I suppose that will be you off, too." Nanny added, turning to me.

"Naturally."

"I shall see you later, dear. Have a good day."

"Thank you. I wish you likewise." I replied, before turning around and walking curtly towards the direction of school.

….

It had indeed, as I had expected, an unexceptionally dull day; although not entirely unpleasant. I received seconds of bread and butter pudding in an unexpected turn of events.

But as I went up to my bedroom to complete my algebra homework- it was still too easy for someone of my intellectual capacity- when I heard a muffled sobbing coming from my brother's room down the hall.

Without a moment of hesitation, I tossed aside my book bag and opened the door to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock was buried in his bedsheets, his shoulders shaking violently, and he was sobbing his heart out- and soaking the sheets in salty tears.

"Sherlock?" I asked, softly, gracefully making my way over to my little brother's bedside, before placing my hand on his back. "Sherly, what is troubling you?" I asked quietly- though I had a suspicion what the problem was.

Sherlock lifted his black, curly head to me- and I nearly recoiled in horror.

My poor little brother now had a black eye, throbbing violently and had swelled significantly. His curls and his face were encrusted with remnants of dried blood, and he now had a small cut under his left eye.

I was relieved to note that the cut itself was superficial; but I could hardly believe the state my brother was in… if it were not for the fact that I was seeing it with my own eyes.

"Who did this to you?" I asked in horror, my fingers brushing his soft, bloodied hair.

"Mycroft, the other kids… they say they hate me because I'm… I'm smarter than them. They say no one should be that smart, and I… got beaten up." Sherlock managed in between sniffles and teary hiccups.

"But was there anyone in particular who did this to you?"

"George Reynolds…" He sniffed, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "He punched… he punched me in the eye and he punched my nose… and… when I fell, he kicked me in the stomach…"

Reynolds… his father, John Reynolds, happened to be my Latin teacher, I realized. I was most displeased about how Mr. Reynolds's son had acted towards my brother.

"Maybe I should just be as stupid as them… maybe they'll leave me alone... or even want to be my friend. If only I wasn't so smart."

"Sherlock, I do not to hear you repeat that again." I said warningly.

"But why?"

I cleared my throat. "Sherlock, genius is a gift. Not every child appreciates gifts. They use them and abuse them until they break. Your intellect is superior to theirs for a reason. Besides, what George Reynolds did to you was far from clever."

"How so, Mycroft?"

"Children are stupid." I replied bluntly. "But you are not stupid; nor should you be deemed stupid. You are the only child I know of that I can have a conversation with without the fear of declining cognition."

"I am?"

"Of course, Sherlock. You're a Holmes- genius comes naturally. And besides, you are so much more than just exceptionally clever, brother mine. You are brave, curious, resilient and loving. You will make a friend worthy of your company, Sherlock- because you are already worthy as your own person."

Sherlock managed a small smile on hearing my sentiment. "Thank you, Mycroft," he said sweetly.

Ever so slightly, I felt my heart warm, and I managed a smile in return. "Anytime, my dear Sherlock. I am your brother. And I will remain your most devoted companion until Death."

"Thanks Mycroft," Sherlock smiled again, and threw his arms around my neck into a tight embrace.

I returned the gesture, in a rare show of affection; all whilst plotting in my mind how exactly to inform Mr. Reynolds of his son's actions to Sherlock.

After all, no one who has hurt my little brother has gotten away with doing so. And I intend to keep it that way.


	5. A Strange Tobacco- Part 2

Prompt: Hang in There!

From: SheWhoScrawls

A/N: I only own Clarence the cab driver, and Inspector Bell. Everyone else= Property of ACD.

This is a continuation of Prompt 2- Ash. Enjoy!

There was no time to waste; Lestrade hailed a cab, gave the driver directions and jumped in quicker than Gregson could draw two breaths.

He was still feeling shocked from Lestrade's deduction; more so at what their victim had been smoking before he himself died.

"Hurry, Gregson!" Lestrade barked furiously from the cab window as his rival/ally finally ran up.

"C'mon, driver! If you can get us to St. Bartholomew's in quick time, I'll double your pay!" the ferret-faced inspector shouted, banging the cab door.

"Right, guv," The driver replied, his voice like sticky honey, and with that assurance, he cracked the reins and off sped the mighty black stallion harnessed to the cab.

Gregson jammed his hat upon his brow as the cab rushed through the streets; not entirely unlike Cinderella's pumpkin coach on its way to the ball in that old story.

….

Upon arriving at the morgue, Lestrade jumped out almost straightaway. "Wait for us, driver! We'll be right back!" He barked, before charging straight into the hospital.

"Alright then," replied the driver, with an innocent, goofy smile on his face; oblivious to Lestrade's sudden disappearance. He didn't look like a particularly intelligent fellow; certainly not with skin pinker than a newborn infant's flesh, his blue-grey eyes were crossed in a funny way, and his nose was bigger than a cream pie- not to mention he was a large, fat, intimidating looking figure.

But Gregson felt sympathetic for the fellow; he seemed harmless, a sweet guy even. He hovered a little as Lestrade charged into St. Bartholomew's.

"We'll be back soon, and you'll be paid." He promised. "We're in a bit of a hurry."

"Oh, I'm used to people forgetting to pay me," Replied the cab driver, cheerfully. "They're often in a hurry. But London is a city of busy people, so I get why they don't always remember their fare."

Gregson suspected that this man was being cheated out of fares, due to his idiocy, and he felt his blood boil over. He intended to ensure he and Lestrade paid him- and he knew at least his friends, like Watson and Holmes, would always pay a cabbie. And the Doctor's wife would probably give him a wholesome meal- as would Mrs. Hudson.

But he'd worry about his new friend later.

Right now, though, he had to help his brothers of the Yard.

….

Despite Lestrade's head start, Gregson had been able to catch up with his temporary partner surprisingly quickly, and soon, the two men were making their way towards the morgue.

But just as they were mere centimeters away from the morgue door, Lestrade suddenly stopped near the morgue doors.

"Halt, Gregson! I hear voices," he hissed.

"I hear too," replied Gregson, so they kept their ears open. They only intended to wait a short time before springing in and helping their colleagues.

"Now, listen here, Erasmus, put your gun down and we'll talk this through sensibly," Said a voice. It was Bradstreet.

"Yes," Added another- it was Inspector Bell. "There's no need for violence. We can negotiate this as calm, rational men; not as police inspectors and suspects."

….

Neither man could hear what the suspect was saying; but it sounded like wet, nasal whimpers. Gregson sniffed in disgust. Already he wanted to punch the rogue and get him away from the morgue before he inflicted more damage on grieving families and the sacred remains of their loved ones.

Then, came a squeaky noise of shoes on the floor- before another muffled noise. Only this seemed more frantic this time.

"Now that's enough!" Snapped Bell, his voice reaching an octave higher. Lestrade paled; he recognized that to be a sign of Bell's anger. But what was going on?

"What's happening in there?" He asked quietly.

There was a shrill scream of horror; and then, a loud noise rang across the morgue like a knell.

Lestrade cursed violently. "Let's go!" He shouted, realizing that his careless error could have cost one of his men their life.

….

Bradstreet and Bell were both caught off guard from shock; both from hearing Lestrade at the morgue doors, and from the gunshot. But what really made them freeze was Hopkins' body lying across the floor, blood pouring from an unseen wound.

Regardless, they were relieved to have backup arrive at last.

They watched with quiet awe as their top inspector tackled the man to the ground; much like a big and fierce dog ripping the juiciest leg of meat from the butcher's window; before shackling him in silver bracelets.

The man was hardly one to match Lestrade in agility, weight or physique, but he was looking very gazed, and even more idiotic than the good-hearted cab driver outside waiting for them.

Relieved that his partner had sorted out the perpetrator, Gregson immediately took off his coat and placed it over Hopkins' wound- which was fortunately located on the shoulder. At least the lad hadn't been shot in a fatal place.

Bell checked Hopkins' pulse, so Gregson could keep both hands over the wound and Bradstreet ran off to find medical assistance for their fallen comrade.

The drama and chaos had transpired so quickly that Gregson barely registered anything that was going on around them; or what he was doing. All he felt was Hopkins' blood on his hands; and that was all he could think of. Hopkins.

"Hang in there, Hopkins!" He gasped through gritted teeth. His eyes were watering- though whether it was from the smell of the blood pouring forth, or from fear for Hopkins' life, he couldn't rightly tell. But he kept holding on himself, knowing that the lad needed a lifeline.

And he didn't let go until Hopkins was finally whisked away to the hospital by the staff, and Lestrade putting a comforting hand upon his shoulder, before suggesting they should have a drink to settle their nerves.

….

It took well over a whole week to settle the affair; during which many events occurred.

The perpetrator was arrested and condemned to jail, where he subsequently hanged himself by tying the legs of his trousers together to make a noose. No one was certain how he managed it, but it was the least of their concerns; so, they merely had his body removed and buried, unmarked and in solitude from the honest, good folk who died before him.

Holmes had finally recovered from the flu, and returned to the Yard, eager for some fresh, challenging cases to solve. On being told the 'Adventure of the Corpse Smoker' he even gave Lestrade and Gregson praise for their efforts. It was blunt, as was to be expected from Sherlock Holmes- but at the same time, it was sincere and heartfelt by both men.

Lestrade didn't have the heart to punch Holmes after the rare show of sentiment. So, he punched the corpse smoker instead, for shooting and injuring Hopkins. This happened three days before the miserable, pathetic wretch committed suicide.

Gregson congratulated his partner on the case; but laughed when Bell suggested that he and Lestrade work together more often. He was given a new uniform, and even a new badge, as the other ended up stained with his friend's blood.

As for Hopkins, he was hospitalized for the bullet wound in his shoulder. He was treated by two doctors together; one of whom was Dr. Watson, who had seen through his friend's flu and managed to rest for only a couple of nights before he heard Hopkins was injured.

And Clarence, the cab driver, was given his pay- plus extra for his patience in waiting outside. He visited Hopkins and wished the best for his recovery, (he heard the news from his new friend, Gregson); and he even got to meet Sherlock Holmes; who although he was hardly impressed with the man's lack of intelligence, he nonetheless was cordial, for Clarence seemed to be a kind, well-meaning- but not too bright- soul.

….

This was the case thus recorded by I, Doctor John H. Watson, who subsequently published the case in the Strand, with their permission.

Even Holmes seemed a little put out when he read it.

"Watson, you are meant to be my Boswell, not Lestrade or Gregson's," he huffed petulantly, throwing the Strand aside.

I just laughed. "Oh, my, Holmes! As fascinating as their case account was, you should know I shall always write up your cases- even if my work does not meet Boswell's."

"Certainly not- your work standards are higher- even if they are full of romantic drivel, they have been successful in bringing work to our front door."

Well, Holmes is more accustomed to doling out insults than praise…

But he better hang in there- I fear Lestrade and Gregson may end up taking on cases instead, after the success of my recent publication.


	6. Please pretend I'm invisible!

Prompt: "Please, pretend I'm invisible."

From: Book girl fan

A/N: Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews so far! I am so sorry I've been slow at replying to them all, but I'm so glad you're all enjoying these stories so far and they are much appreciated 😊 so I decided to bring back an old OC from a previous challenge… enjoy!

Ever since our bonds as business partners and roommates expanded to include the ties of a close and intimate friendship, Holmes and I had taken the uncustomary habit of sitting down by the cosy fire in our living room, and enjoying tea and some of Mrs. Hudson's freshly baked goods; if we were both at home, where we discuss murder, mysteries and baffling deductions; not to mention reminiscence on previous cases.

And that was thus how the afternoon of December 16th, 1891 was set out, dear readers, when a knock was heard at the door.

I stirred a little in my chair, eager for some new case to solve, some interesting client to emerge from the London shadows and reveal themselves to Holmes and myself.

"Hm, it seems Inspector Lestrade is paying us a visit," mused Holmes, his pipe between his teeth. "I wonder why."

"Is it a case?" I asked.

"No. Lestrade's footsteps do not suggest a new case, dash it all. And yet, he is aware I am not generally welcoming of social calls."

The door opened, and Mrs. Hudson showed our friend in, who was holding his sleeve to one eye.

"Here you are, Inspector. I'll bring up some coffee and ice for you while the good doctor tends to you." She hurried away, closing the door behind her to prepare and fetch the coffee before Lestrade could reply.

"I was correct," Holmes smiled softly.

"Right about what?" Asked Lestrade with a moan, shifting his hand ever so slightly.

"Not a concern right now," I answer, ruefully, shooting Holmes a warning glare. "What can I help you with, Lestrade?"

"Well, I obtained a shiner whilst trying to arrest a thief," he grimaced, pulling away his hand gingerly so I could look.

"Oh my!" I exclaimed. "Did someone strike you?"

"Nope- I tussled with him and got thrown into a lamppost." Lestrade grumbled. "I'm just surprised I didn't break my nose. But I got him arrested, anyways."

I nodded in relief, just as our landlady returned with the coffee. Billy was behind her, wielding some ice in a cloth for the inspector's eye.

"Thanks, doc," he said gratefully, wincing as I applied the ice-bag to his eye.

"Well, you'll be sore for a while," I say, "but you'll be fine before long."

"Aye," Agreed the inspector.

….

As our companion was not fit for going back on the streets yet, Holmes had been kind enough to flag down one of his Irregulars to send a short message to inform Scotland Yard of Lestrade's whereabouts; as well as the preceding events.

"Well I do appreciate you letting me stay here. I only hope I'm not intruding." Lestrade continued.

Holmes snorted. "Lestrade, you were welcomed to stay here; more so because of your injury. It will only inconvenience you if you go out. At least stay until we hear back from your colleagues."

"Holmes has a point," I reminded the feisty inspector. "I know you hate being down and out, Lestrade- but your bad eye will not do you a favour if you're in need to stop someone else."

Lestrade was still unhappy about his position, but he agreed to stay, unwilling to attempt an argument with Holmes, for very few men did so. Even less men – and women- succeeded in winning an argument against him.

And so, thus, we resumed conversation again; including the good inspector, for another good fifteen minutes when we heard the front door again.

"Who could that be now?" I wondered.

We didn't wait long to find out; for Mrs. Hudson showed an elderly lady to our rooms.

"Here you are, dear." Mrs. Hudson said wearily, gently guiding the old lady into the living room. "I hope Mr. Holmes is not in a terrible mood today."

"Oh, it's quite alright!" The lady replied, cheerily.

As soon as I noticed the ill-fitting spectacles and the odd black boots, I recognised our visitor at once.

"Watson, what do I do?" Holmes whispered in a panic, clutching at my sleeve like a lost and helpless child.

Well, I suppose he is, beneath all that genius and 6 ft of sinewy muscle.

I turned around to meet his eyes begging me to do something. "Holmes, she's your family. Even if she's a bit… erm, odd, you need to try and be nice."

"But you're better at it than I am!"

'Oh, for Heavens' sake,' I thought crossly. Holmes really was a child sometimes. But there wasn't much use getting annoyed at him; my friend, although capable of sincerity and affection, often had trouble expressing it, unless the circumstances called for it.

"Well, it's lovely to see you again, ma'am," I said politely, managing a smile.

"Pollux- is that you, my dear?" She asked, trying to fumble with her glasses.

I tried hard to not blush. "No, no, madam. I am Doctor John Watson- I'm your nephew's flatmate."

"Ah, John! It's been too long!" Cassiopeia beamed warmly. "I do apologise, dear- you look so much like my husband, you know."

"What in the world…?" Lestrade whispered to me.

"Lestrade, this is my aunt, Cassiopeia," Holmes explained quietly, finally arising from his chair. "She is completely harmless; but she is also on the eccentric side."

We all turned back to Cassiopeia Holmes.

"But I do apologise, Sherly, I never realised you had company!" she said cheerfully. "I'll wait over here. Please just pretend I'm invisible."

Lestrade gave us the most perplexed look I had ever seen him don in the time we had known each other. His black eye didn't do him any favours either.

That was certainly not helped when Cassiopeia brought out Cabécou; her pet frog.

And, so, my dear readers, Lestrade had a very interesting tale for the Yarders when he returned to work… following a bizarre adventure involving the frog; the three of us; an open window; and Holmes' favourite pipe.

But that is a story for another time… I better keep an eye on Cabécou – and of course my medical bag, in case Holmes decides to go rummaging in there again…


	7. Improvisation

Prompt: Carols

From: W. Y. Traveller

…..

With the aftermath of the Blue Carbuncle case, combined with Mr. Jessiman's persistent chest cough brought naught but exhaustion and fatigue upon my limbs, my mind and my soul. It was these agonies and the colder weathers which inflamed my old war wounds as well, souring my mood considerably.

Trudging home that frightfully freezing night, I allowed myself a moment to dream of those comfortable quarters at 221B- a blazing fire, a warm and hearty supper cooked by the esteemed lady Mrs. Hudson; followed by a steaming cup of tea; a delightfully warm bath and my cosy bed.

At long last, I reached the front door. With a jerk of the knob and a stumble, I was finally in the carpeted corridor of home. I removed my coat and boots, my left shoulder flaring up in pain. I only thought it odd Mrs. Hudson had not come to greet me.

"Hm, perhaps she is upstairs," I mused, as I removed my hat and hung it up. "Or she could be asleep."

As I trudged up the seventeen steps towards the very quarters I share with my dearest friend, Sherlock Holmes, I heard the strangest song being sung in his rich and comforting baritone; and it was accompanied by a spritely polka on his prized Stradivarius.

" _Jingle bells, Mycroft smells_

 _Watson fell off his sled,_

 _All while Lestrade snores in his bed!_

 _Jingle bells, Mycroft smells,_

 _Watson fell off his sled"-_

"- Holmes, what the devil are you doing, man?" Asked I, entering the living room. Despite the glare I was now wearing on my face, the great consulting detective looked towards the door- and his face lit up as soon as he saw me.

"Ah, good evening, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed in an unusual combination of joviality and surprise. He tenderly lain his violin down beside him to talk to me. "I did not expect you back so early!"

"Evidently." I replied, wryly. "You can't go around singing that! That's hardly fitting behaviour."

"I can, and I will, Watson!" Holmes lifted his chin defiantly. "We are lucky that we live in a country with a democratic approach to governance that allows its people free speech. I have witnessed many barbaric societies during my travels." He said, jumping up from his sofa. "Besides, I thought it was a stroke of genius," he added, with a little pout, crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant child.

"That's very interesting of you to say, Holmes, considering you take little interest in politics yourself."

"Only if it may influence a case," he replied, tapping the side of his nose mischievously.

I was not amused. "Holmes, I have had a long day of patients complaining about the cold virus and making ludicrous demands of me administrating some kind of medicine to relieve them of it; as well as several other illnesses. I wish for some peace and quiet to rest." I said quietly. Even if I did say before that I was very fond of the man, sometimes I wished I could just strangle Holmes for being so thoughtless at the best- and worst- of times.

"I do apologize, Watson," Said he, looking a bit crestfallen. "I merely wished for your companionship. But it is true as they say; doctors really do make the worst patients." He smiled at me. "Go up, Watson. I shall play you a melody shortly."

I really did want to hear nothing but merciful silence until I had had some sleep and took something for my newly forming headache; but I knew my friend's offer was born out of a sincere desire to help, and I had not the heart to tell him no- besides, I'd rather he'd play some heavenly melody than attempt to impersonate a strangled cat.

"By the way, Watson," he added, still a tad petulant "My brother thought to make a fool of me in front of our relatives today."

"Oh, the vultures came, did they?" I asked sarcastically. In my feverish mind, I realized too late that the comparison between the death devouring birds and my friend's relatives were meant to be kept in my head alone.

But Holmes merely laughed at my odd attempt at imagery.

"Ah, Watson, you do amuse me." He chuckled, wiping tears of mirth from his eye. "My brother embarrassed me, my dear Watson, and I have plans to embarrass him in front of Lestrade."

"I thought you would have aimed to embarrass Mycroft in front of the Prime Minister." I answered teasingly. Holmes merely smiled at the thought of such a possibility- but then he shook his head.

"Had I targeted Mycroft alone, possibly." Holmes shrugged. Whether he was joking or not, I had yet to find out. "But I have mentioned you, and I have no intention of embarrassing you in front of our Prime Minister. At least, not deliberately, of course." He added.

Had it not been for the wide assortment of people we had met on previous cases, from all social classes, I would have wondered how and why Holmes would manage such a feat. This thought was replaced with warm regard to his rather peculiar sentiment; but confused as to where Holmes was taking his point. "And you wanted to get him back by…"

"Ah, yes- I wish to sing that song to him and Lestrade." He finished, "And I want you to come with me and dance.

I chuckled. That was actually quite a silly idea; but then, even the great Sherlock Holmes needed to be silly sometimes, I reasoned. And the fact he wanted me there to embarrass his brother with him was quite a touching sentiment- if, again, a rather odd one.

But since when had Holmes ever gone for the conventional?

In fact, I felt more invigorated now than I had been all day. Perhaps I needed to drag Holmes on a leash for some much-needed morale boosts whist I was on my rounds. But he would resent conforming to my scheduled rounds.

"When do you need me Holmes?" I asked.

Holmes looked at his watch. "If you are up to it, an hour and a quarter, Watson. Mrs. Hudson left us some soup in the kitchen, if you wish."

I merely gave my friend a grateful nod for the message and promised him I'd be ready by the given time.

A/N: Oh boy… how to explain my long-term absence from this fic. Writer's block- simplest explanation I can offer. That plus procrastination and life… the worst possible concoction. However, I'm back with an update! Here is (after nearly a whole year!) 7th December prompt! Apologies for the long wait!

Hope you all enjoy- I really like how this came out in the end!


	8. The Charing Cross Waiting Room

Prompt: Quite a literal taste of 'boxing day'.

From: Madam'zelleG

…..

Whilst I do now defer any and all medical practices I require onto my dear Watson, I had of course been unable to do just that prior to our first meeting in St. Barts. In fact, when I initially lived on Montague Street, I had seen a different doctor, one that my family showed little approval for, due to his Irish background.

His name was Finn Boyle, a young doctor of Dublin origin, sand-haired, blue eyed and withered by a childhood illness. Despite his etiolated physique, he was a fellow filled with vigour and determination to see out his patients' needs no matter the plight.

My old friend from university, Victor Trevor, first accompanied me to see this very doctor after his wretched mongrel had decided to taste a sample of my poor ankle; and in spite of my family's lack of sympathy for the Irish, I came to hold this doctor to a reluctant esteem, for he was more professional than most doctors I had ever met, save for my dear Boswell, of course.

I have yet to meet a doctor who can triumph over Watson in quality of medical care.

I must note that one of those rare instances I had been most grateful for Dr. Boyle's services was the Boxing Day of 1880, which left me with a very bitter taste in my mouth.

….

I tapped my fingers on the armrest, recalling the melodies of Sarasate at the concert I had attended the previous evening, my eyes darting to a figure bundled in a dark-grey coat, with a light blue flannel scarf, unravelling at the ends. As eager as I was for some action, to finally conclude this case, I allowed myself to settle, reminding myself that I could ill-afford to make such a careless mistake; especially after two weeks of well-reasoned deductions and logic as I had ever made!

Instead, I watched silently as Mathews began chatting to a young brown-haired nurse. The nurse looked very… startled and seemed to be peeking over his shoulder and straight in my direction, as though begging for my intervention.

That was when he turned around and saw me. Or at least, he saw a impoverished Cockney chimney sweep.

"You have a problem, mate?" He asked, in a hoarse, nasal growl. I hold my hands up in mock surrender.

"Hardly. You have not spoken to me, nor have you done something to offend me." I replied carefully.

He nodded, rubbing his bearded chin. "Well, what were you staring at?"

"Nothing."

"You sound like a damn fool to me. You look like one, too." He grunted, before looking into my eyes. I hold my breath.

Although my ability for disguises was, admittedly, phenomenal, the biggest weakness was when my more observant enemies recognised my eyes. Hoping to distract him, I spoke again.

However, as Mycroft is so fond of reminding me, I have a habit of blurting out what is better left unsaid.

"I do hope you're not going to kiss me, guv."

The patients scattered around the waiting room burst out laughing- all except Mathews, of course, who merely went bright red and gave a venomous glare in my general direction.

I knew I had spoken rashly. Before I could act, Mathews punched me across the jaw, his left hook meeting flesh and bone. Much to my mortification, I stumbled backwards, just a little. However, this gave Mathews a boost of confidence, and he sniggered at having winded Sherlock Holmes.

I retaliated quickly and returned the favour with an uppercut to his nose. Snarling, he launched another fist towards me; but by ducking to the right, I was able to grab his right arm and disarm him of the knife he had hidden up his sleeve, which I promptly slid across the floor, before finally grabbing his arm and pinioning it behind his back.

Unfortunately, my victory was brief, for he yanked his arm out of my grip and spun around to face me; where he saw fit to deliver a shovel hook to my right cheek and spat in my face, spewing the foulest of obscenities I had the shame of hearing- and I have been to many a dockside with tamer curses than his own… and in a hospital waiting room, nevertheless!

I promptly responded as I saw fit; with a rather ungentlemanly but very much deserved kick in the nether regions; sending him sprawling to the floor with a curse and a loud, puppy-like yelp.

"You'll pay for that, Mr. Holmes," he hissed through clenched teeth, tears of pain forming in his eyes as he gingerly attempted to shield his nether regions with his hands.

"I think you'll find," I replied loftily, pressing a foot warningly against the affiliated area, arms folded. "that you are in no condition to exact revenge on me to-day." With that, I released my foot, ordering a young nurse out to summon the nearest inspector.

Feeling quietly triumphant, despite the plan going awry, I hobbled to Dr. Boyle's office, paying no heed to the pathetic, puling perpetrator sprawled on the sterile floor.


	9. Alice (and Sherlock) in Wonderland

From Ennui Enigma: Someone from ACD canon finds themselves caught inside Alice's reality in Wonderland.

...

"Where the blazes are we, old chum?" I ask warily rubbing my throbbing head.

"Woof!"

"Of course." I sigh. "Never mind, Toby. We'll soon find our way home again- hopefully in time for one of Mrs. Hudson's delightful suppers." I grimace as I feel my stomach grumbling in protest. "And home to Watson too, wherever he might be." I add gravely.

Grabbing Toby's leash, I jump to my feet and let my canine companion lead the way.

"Onward, Toby!"

"Woof! Woof!"

...

Toby excitedly puts his nose to the ground and begins sniffing almost immediately- it was a haven for a sniffer dog such as he, the air smelled of flowers; whilst I retreat into my mind; observing my surroundings, categorizing the facts into my head, compiling data, drawing conclusions-

-when I suddenly let out a loud sneeze. It was at the same time Toby abruptly stopped sniffing the ground and began barking instead.

"Toby, what is it?" I ask in annoyance, rummaging around in my pockets for a handkerchief.

"Oh my, I see we're collecting lost souls today!" A new voice remarks. Looking up, I blink in disbelief as a large pink and purple striped cat suddenly appears out of thin air and perches delicately on a tree branch right above us.

Toby, still straining against his leash, continues his tirade against that foul beast in the tree.

"And who might you be?" I ask the cat snappishly.

"Hm, seems someone's forgotten their manners." The strange cat answers, smiling mischievously. "What do you know, I've seen manners without an Englishman, but never an Englishman without manners."

"It's lucky for me then that I remembered my revolver." I retort, fingering its cool steel in my Inverness pocket.

"Ah, ah, won't do you any good." Says the cat, still grinning. "For I can disappear and reappear at the drop of the Mad Hatter's hat… if he ever lets it drop, that is." He chuckled to himself. "As to your question, dear sir, I am the Cheshire Cat."

"Well, I had hoped I wouldn't run into one of you mangy beasts." I retort, sneezing again. I curse when I remember that I still haven't found my handkerchief.

Hm, perhaps I was being robbed by mice…?

I shake the ridiculous notion from my mind and turn to address the even more ridiculous sight in front of us. "So, Mr. Cheshire Cat, would you happen to know how we can get home?"

"Search me," Replies the cat smugly. "But, mind you, you're not the only soul lost in these parts."

"Who else are keeping here in this dammed hell?!" I ask, prompting Toby to whine, howl and then bark anew. Odd. I hadn't even realised he stopped barking until he started again.

"Well, I'm no gaoler." The cat replies, offended. "But a girl roams these woods, looking for the way home. Far more polite than you, I can assure you."

"I presume she hasn't been taunted by something she's allergic to." I reply grumpily.

"Allergies are hardly an excuse for manners going missing." The cat answers, much to my bafflement. "Still, perhaps you and Alice might find your way out. She's from England too, you know."

The thought of meeting English kin, even if a young girl, harked my spirits a little. "Which way did she go?" I ask, eagerly.

"Who knows?" The Cheshire Cat answers with a shrug, his body suddenly disappearing into thin air, whilst his head remained where it was.

This only unsettled me and set Toby into an outright frenzy.

"…Well, thank you for your assistance." I remark sarcastically. "Come along, Toby- we might as well see if we can find home, or this Alice girl- whatever comes first."

"Woof!"

Having received my companion's approval, I set off, with Toby in tow.

….

About twenty minutes after our encounter with that ghastly creature, we come across a blonde-haired girl in a blue dress and white apron.

"Hello!" I call out. "You must be Alice!"

The girl jumps. "Oh, I do beg your pardon, I never saw you." She says, politely, as I approach her with Toby. "How did you know my name? I haven't even introduced myself yet."

"Ah. I met the so-called 'Cheshire Cat'," I reply. "He told me there was a girl named Alice lost here as well as I. From there, I inferred your name must be Alice once I saw you."

"Oh, you've met him, too?" She asks me.

"Yes, indeed. Unfortunately."

"And who might you be?"

"Sherlock Holmes." I reply. "This is my companion, Toby."

"Hello." Alice shakes my hand, before kneeling to give Toby a scratch behind his ears.

"So, I don't suppose you know how to get of here, do you?"

"Without data, I'm afraid not." I answer grimly, casting my eye over Alice briefly before speaking again. "Well, you seem like a curious and intelligent sort. I suppose you shall replace my Watson for a while."

"So, I'm coming with you?" Asks Alice, hopefully. "It's frightfully lonely being the only logical person in this cruel world."

' _I hope you never experience what I have once experienced, child,'_ I thought. Out loud, I add, "Yes. We shall gather data and see if we can use it to plan our escape."

"Oh, yes!" Alice exclaims excitedly, clapping her hands in delight.

"But stay close," I warn her. "Your head's not a fun place to get lost in."


	10. Run, Billy, run!

From Stutley Constable: Run, Billy! Run!

A/N: A bit short, but I hope you enjoy, regardless! 😊

…..

"Run, Billy! Run!" A voice yells.

Startled by the commotion, I cast a glance out of my frost-covered kitchen window to see our page, Billy, running along the length of Baker Street, almost as though he was playing a game of cricket. Mr. Holmes's street boys line the pavement, laughing and cheering Billy on as he continues his run along the road.

His eyes were fixed to something in the sky… but what that something was, I could not say just now.

I had noted the street to be icy, namely when I went shopping, so I decide to open the window and give the boys a little friendly warning so that no one hurt themselves… the last thing I wanted was for those poor boys to end up needing the attention of Doctor Watson.

Opening the window, I crane my neck as far as I can- and I immediately see something white hurtling towards Billy, who was most intent to catch it. It was small, round and white.

Before I could cry out a warning, I notice him slip and skid on the ice. My heart in my throat, I get ready to dash out, in case he fell and seriously injured himself…. Only for him to regain balance very quickly.

I sigh in relief- and then, I suddenly hear a loud eruption of cheers outside.

Glancing back out of the still-open window, I see that Billy is hugging the ball tightly to his chest and the other boys are cheering at this new development.

Knowing better than to intervene, I merely close the window again, before removing a tray of cookies from the oven.

The boys will appreciate some later with some hot cocoa… as will Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes, who I had witnessed throwing the ball in the first place.


	11. Choosing a Tree with Sherlock Holmes

From KnightFury: Choosing a tree

A/N: And once again, I unleash my full angst powers. Enjoy! And a merry Christmas to you all!

"How about this tree, Holmes?" I ask, gesturing to a fir tree no higher than my shoulders- its green needles glistened softly in the setting sun, the white, crisp, fresh snow sparkling all around us.

I hear a soft crunch, crunch as Holmes approaches, magnifying glass in hand. Wordlessly, he examines the trunk through it, whilst I stand next to him, rubbing my hands.

I really ought to ask Mrs. Hudson if she knows where I can obtain some new gloves- these ones are almost worn out- and are useless in keeping my hands warm.

"Watson," Holmes says after several minutes in silence.

"Yes, old chap?"

"This particular tree is infected with Neonectaria canker of Abies."

"Pardon, Holmes?"

"Fir tree disease." He snaps impatiently. "Can you not see the cankers infecting the trunk?"

I roll my eyes- though, upon reflection, my flatmate was right, the tree, now that I was paying more attention to it, was most certainly infected, and that would never do. However, what irritated me beyond belief was that Holmes had fussed about every single detail of all the trees we looked at- size, branch amount, whether they contained nests, health…. The list went on.

This had gone on for two hours, and I was cold, tired and my old war wounds were stiff and throbbing in pain from dashing about London all day in the cold weather seeing to patients- mostly the elderly and bedridden- in their homes, followed by two agonising hours pf stamping about after Holmes in this forsaken forest… all in the name of finding the perfect tree to take home to 221B Baker Street.

Ironically, Holmes had not shown the slightest interest in finding a Christmas Tree… only, Mrs. Hudson had chased him out of the flat to go and search for one, and not, in her words 'mope about the flat smoking or taking that horrid stuff!'

Although I had agreed with the good lady's intentions to keep my flatmate away from such vices, I was less than impressed to have to go with him… especially when I wanted a hearty supper, a cosy fire and my all-too-inviting bed…

Alas, some things were not meant to be.

….

Although my patience when dealing with my flatmate's grievances was extraordinary for the most part, I struggled to keep my temper in check during instances such as this. And, as I feared and anticipated, everything came to a head before long.

"How about this one, Holmes?" I ask, through gritted teeth, gesturing towards a bonny little tree near the middle of the woods.

"Hm, it's got owls living in it, Watson." He replies grimly, blinking at the four little eyes staring at him curiously. "I'm afraid you'll have to choose something else."

That did it.

"Holmes, I have been in the middle of nowhere with you of all people, trying to find a blasted tree! I am cold, hungry tired and stiff, and I am fed up with you finding fault with every tree I suggest! Well, let me suggest if you know so much about choosing 'the perfect tree' Holmes, I'll leave you to do it on your own!" I snap furiously, before storming off angrily- leaving my friend behind me before he could even formulate a witty reply.

….

"Would ye like more cider, Doc? Got plenty, ye know- and ye look gloomier than a sow witnessing the slaughter o' 'er own piglets."

"No thank you," I reply politely, returning Mr. Thomas's glass to him. "That was most kind of you to give me a drink of your cider- but I'm waiting for my friend to return with our tree."

"Say, erm, where did ye leave yer mate, anyways?" He asks me curiously with a little knowing sneer that sent shivers crawling down my spine.

"Well, he's out there still… searching." I retort with a nonchalant shrug "Serves him right, too- I've been trying to help him for two hours- on top of a long day seeing to my patents- and look how he repays me!"

Thomas suddenly developed a disturbed expression on his face.

"Were ye not warned, Doc?"

"About what?"

"That blasted Jamie- he wis supposed to warn all folks who come here about the storm!"

"Storm? What storm, Thomas?" I ask suddenly, my body stiffening in awareness.

"Why, 'e blizzard, o' course!" Ejaculates the old man, his arms suddenly flying about wildly, like linens drying in the afternoon breeze. "A blizzard's meant to hit 'ese parts tonight! And yer mate's out in the middle o' it! Or will be soon enough!"

My anger at his ingratitude quickly melts to raw, unfiltered fear as I suddenly realise that my dearest friend could potentially die out there in that blasted storm, all alone…

I did not to lose Holmes again. Not for real.

"Thomas, I'm going to look for him." I declare boldly.

"I forbid it, Doc- it'll be too dangerous." He says. "Me missus and me can keep ye 'ere and warmed up."

I shake my head determinedly.

"I served our Gracious Queen and this country in Afghanistan- I have witnessed many horrors none of my fellow men should ever bear witness to- and I'll be damned if I let my best friend perish in this hell!"

Beside me, Thomas pales. "Very well, Doc." He replies meekly. "I can't stop ye. But this be suicidal." He warns me.

Undeterred, I tighten my scarf. "As I said, I'll be damned if my best friend dies out there just because I left him in these woods. Men can bear ills, but not grief. Anything but."

"Very well- Godspeed, Doc. Hope ye both get out safe." He tells me, handing me a lantern. "This might no' last long, but… I can't bear 'e thought o' sending a good man like ye out without something or other…"

"Thank you, Thomas," I reply, before turning back to the woods.

To find the friend closest to my heart, I'd have to venture into the heart fo the woods, and out again.

Who could say I would survive?

Sending a quick prayer that Holmes was safe and alive, I dash into the woods, fear in my heart, my light in my hand, and his name in my throat.


	12. Mrs Hudson Wins at Snapdragon

From sirensbane: Mrs. Hudson wins

A/N: this was a Victorian party game I found out about on the internet- which will be explained in the story. Enjoy this little slice of randomness!

….

The six of us sat around the blazing bowl- me, Holmes, his brother Mycroft, Inspector Lestrade, Cassiopeia Holmes and Mrs. Hudson.

"Alright… seeing as I've been abroad for some time, would anyone care to remind me this game works again?" I asked to no one in particular.

"The aim of this game, Doctor Watson, is to snatch up raisins from that brandy-filled bowl, whilst it's burning." Began Mycroft, gesturing to the bowl, burning cheerfully in the darkness of the living room, "and eat them." He rolled his eyes. "Although I cannot see how self-mutilation counts as 'being in the festive spirit.'" He finished drolly.

"Oh, cheer up, dearie!" Aunt Cassiopeia squeaked excitedly, playfully elbowing her oldest nephew in the ribs. "At least your brother's excited!"

"That's because, my dear auntie, Sherlock here is a bloodthirsty brute." Mycroft answered. "Though, I suppose all little brothers are like that."

"I'll have to falsify your theory, Mycroft- our good doctor here was a good brother to Henry." My friend says. Before I can protest indignantly at Holmes mentioning my poor dead brother, Mycroft nods in concession.

"Hm, pity I could not have swapped brothers." He muttered.

I changed the subject by asking Lestrade if he was quite well, for he was looking very nervous. He responded with a nod in the nugatory.

"Well, whatever's the matter, old chap?" I asked him.

"I can stand losing a party game to Gregson," he answered, fearfully. "But playing Snapdragon with three members of the Holmes family is more than I would have anticipated."

"You can back out, Lestrade," Replied Holmes, lazily. "Though whether your pride will withstand that, I really cannot say."

"Fine, I'll stay!" Snapped the good inspector. "But there is to be no foul play here." He reminded them sternly.

"We may be the smartest chaps in the room- but we're also British." Mycroft reminds us, "We have no intention of cheating anyone. I do hope Sherly's outgrown the habit." He added smarmily, causing my friend's ears to redden in embarrassment.

"I'm sure we'll all be alright, Lestrade." I say, in an attempt to reassure him. But, despite my best efforts, I could also feel doubt niggling inside me.

….

That quickly vanished, however, when I saw how well the game was going; despite the odd minor squabble, and Sherlock accidentally burning his knee in a very rare moment of absent-mindedness. We counted and ate our raisins, whilst we laughed, joked, sang and drank some extra brandy leftover from the game supplies.

Then, to round off the game, Sherlock, still nursing his burned knee, suggested we play a game to see who could accumulate the most raisins in ten-minute blocks. Whomever got the least, would be eliminated.

Needless to say, we all accepted, and a fresh bowl of brandy and raisins was swiftly prepared for the Competition Round.

….

I was eliminated within the first ten-minute block. I didn't mind awfully- the player dynamics were fascinating to watch.

Lestrade fell short at the next round, so he sat off to the side beside me so we could observe what was going on.

"Who do you think will be next, Doctor?" He asked me in a whisper, the smell of brandy on his breath tickling my ear.

"One of the Holmes brothers, definitely," I replied- and I was correct, for Mycroft became the third one eliminated, leaving Sherlock competing against the ladies. He played well, but, when he eventually fell two raisins short of his aunt and landlady's totals, he was forced to sit out the round.

It was now down to Aunt Cassiopeia and Mrs. Hudson.

"Things will get very interesting now." I whispered to Sherlock, who nodded in agreement.

"Did you say something, dear?" Asked Aunt Cassiopeia suddenly, looking over at me.

"Erm, sorry, I was talking to Holmes- Sherlock." I replied, embarrassed that she heard me whispering.

"Not that you're very good at whispering, my dear Watson." Holmes replied quietly, as though he'd read my mind.

"Well, if you say so," Replied Aunt Cassiopeia, with a shrug, seemingly oblivious to Sherlock's remark to me. "Now if you boys don't mind, Martha and I have a score to settle."

Shrugging, we all settled ourselves down to watch this final round of Snapdragon unfold. This went on longer than we anticipated, for both women tied on two rounds, so a third 'Final Round' had to be commenced.

"It's a pity your wife wasn't here playing." Mycroft said to me.

"Mary prefers party games like Charades or Shove Piggy Shove." I replied.

"Really?" Sherlock asked me in astonishment. "I thought she would have been more adventurous."

"Snapdragon gives her bad memories. Now pipe down!" I hissed- just as we heard Mrs. Hudson let out a joyful whoop.

Startled, we resumed our attention to the game.

"I won!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed proudly, her cheeks pink from ecstasy and brandy. I swallowed, hoping she wouldn't get cross for getting her a bit drunk.

"Oh, well done, Martha! That was smashing!" Smiled Aunt Cassiopeia, shaking Mrs. Hudson's hand warmly.

"Thank you, Cass," replied Mrs. Hudson affectionately, patting the old lady's hand. "That was a good round of a great game."

"Yes, indeed! Good game everyone! Well done all round!" Trilled Cassiopeia, as we gingerly stretched our legs. "Now, how about coffee before we retire for the night?"

"Capital idea!" Proclaimed Lestrade.

It was decided that Sherlock and I would assist Cass in this endeavour.


	13. Of Conclusions and Skeletons

From sirensbane: Lestrade finds himself explaining Holmes's conclusions to someone else (preferably before Holmes has a chance)

A/N: This was based on a story I found in Jeremy Clay's book, _'The Burglar Caught by A Skeleton and Other Singular Tales from the Victorian Press'._ The incident in question, however, happened at a medical practice in Greensburg, Pennsylvania, on February 26th, 1874.

Disclaimer: I only own the idiot thief and Fred the Skeleton 😊

…

"Holmes, may I ask how the deuce this happened?" Dr. Watson asked, gesturing to the writhing burglar on the floor. Poor fellow, wretch though he is, looked as though he would suffer a cardiac shock at having his teeth trapped in the jaw of a skeleton.

Before Holmes could answer, I replied, "Well, Doctor, from what Hopkins, Holmes and I found, those burglars had been watching your office for at least three weeks, observing your comings and goings. What's more, when I went in to see you about that migraine, Doctor, I noted that this lad here," he scuffed his foot in the direction of the young thief, still paralyzed with fear, "was in apparently getting treated for a dog bite to the thumb… but he had no bite marks or bleeding to speak of."

He eyed the skeleton, still sprawled over the trembling perpetrator, "If it hadn't been for your bony buddy here, Watson, these lads would have stolen your drugs and all your tools they could carry."

"Good heavens!" Watson exclaimed. I couldn't tell if he was more surprised at his practice being targeted for theft or that I had beaten Holmes to revealing the conclusions. "I must say, Inspector, this is all rather… peculiar, isn't it?"

"I'll say. What's with the skeleton, anyway?"

"Oh, Fred? He keeps me company when I'm working on patient reports and notes and all the boring paperwork." He replied. "I don't know who he was… so I christened him Fred. But I must say, my dear inspector, I never expected Fred to come in handy in defending my medical practice!

"Oh, yes, hurray for Fred." Holmes commented sarcastically in the corner- most likely sulking over how I had beaten him to the grand reveal, "Whatever will we do without him?"

"Yes, Holmes, what would I do without him?" Watson mused in reply.

"Perhaps Fred could be fitted out for his own police uniform!" I joked, and Watson laughed.

"Ha-ha! Good one Lestrade!" Watson chortled, clearly in good humour despite being disturbed at having his medical practice broken into and nearly robbed clean of its contents.

"Hooray Fred Bones, Honorary Inspector of Scotland Yard!" I added with a chortle. "Wait, does he have a surname?"

"Not really, but I think Fred Bones has a nice ring to it, even if it's a tad unimaginative." Watson replied with a shrug.

"I agree." Holmes said, startling us both. "Though Watson, I do question whether I should have you sent to Bedlam."

"No thank you- I'm not having anyone else invading my medical practice!" Watson replied determinedly.

"Why be worried? We have Fred on our side now!" I added, and the three of us laughed again, before Watson and Holmes worked together to free the thief from Fred's clutches; whereupon I slapped a pair of iron bracelets on him.


	14. Get Out

From SheWhoScrawls: Get Out

…

"Holmes! Holmes!" I bellowed into the dark, howling night, trampling the snow beneath me as I ran around like a headless chicken, trying to find some trace of my poor friend in these woods and hopefully guide us both back to safety and shelter.

Despite my lungs now struggling for breath and my war wounds now screaming in pure, unfiltered agony, neither pain could compare with the fear in my heart- the fear that my best friend could die out here, alone.

"HOLMES!"

What if, in a moment of selfish outburst, I had condemned my dearest friend to such an agonizing fate? To die alone without a friend at his side.

I had made the mistake of leaving Holmes behind to 'die' alone on Reichenbach Falls- I had no intention of allowing Fate to repeat itself.

Tears burned at my eyes and froze on my stinging cheeks as I scanned the forest, praying desperately that I would be able to find my flatmate- before it was too late.

…

I had not gone very far when I instantly realized two things: one, was that I was lost, and two, I was in imminent danger of collapsing in the snow and losing consciousness out in the middle of nowhere, and that I should get out now and find help.

And yet, foolishly, I continued on, still hoping against hope that I would soon see Holmes's silhouette, and I could thus guide him to safety and apologize to him for leaving him alone on such a cruel night!

And so, I continued, deeper and deeper into those dark and lonely woods, with only my lantern and thoughts of despair and doom as my companions.

…..

Unfortunately, however, my meagre luck ran out. I tripped over a tree root, which had been obscured by the dark and the snow and I stumbled. To make matters worse, my wounded leg, clearly in mutiny at being subjected to being exposed to the cold weather for so long, gave out on me and I instantly fell- hitting my head on something dark. I could feel my head start swimming before, overcome with cold and pain, I eventually blacked out.

…

"Watson, Watson, please! Wake up man!"

Groggily, I opened my eyes to see Thomas the tree seller- and to my eternal joy and relief, Sherlock Holmes- both hovering at my bedside.

"Praise be," Muttered Thomas. "I'll just alert me missus ye're mate's alive."

"Please, do," Holmes replies dismissively.

"PEARL! He's awake!" Bellowed Thomas, marching out of the room, leaving Holmes and I alone.

"Holmes… what happened out there?" I asked curiously, once he was out of earshot.

"I found you, Watson." Holmes answered, quietly. "I was able to find a logical way to get out of the woods and back to Thomas's. Only, the confounded blizzard took me by surprise and discombobulated me, so I ended up going the wrong way. It was just as well for that, however…" he trailed off, forcing his hands deep in his coat pockets, his shoulders stiffer than I had ever seen them.

"Holmes?"

"I found you, Watson. Lying unconscious in the snow." Holmes continued. I was surprised and horrified to see my friend's eyes glistening with emotion. Blinking sharply, he continued, carefully, "I was most relieved when I found you still had a pulse, my dear Watson- but it was very weak. I… I took you with me all the way back to Thomas's."

Touched by Holmes's loyalty and devotion to me, I felt all the worse for how I had snapped at my friend earlier. I had to wait before I could speak without bubbling over with emotion, but I eventually plucked up the courage to speak.

"Holmes, I would like to say that I really am sorry for having snapped at you earlier… and I'm sorry for leaving you alone in the storm. What kind of friend am I?" I asked him miserably, glancing down at my blanket covered legs in shame.

"You, Watson, are the bravest friend I've ever had." Holmes replied.

Startled, I glance up to see his steely-grey eyes soft with warmth and affection. "You not only risked your life to save mine the moment you found out I was in danger, but you are also brave enough to know when you are wrong and can admit it free of pride and shame." He put a hand on my good shoulder and squeezed ever so gently before continuing, "For too long I have wondered what I have done to deserve your loyalty and friendship.

"But," he continued, his hand gesturing to silence from me, "you are not entirely to blame for this sorry affair, Watson. Due to my lack of interest and keenness to get the tree-choosing over and done with, I was oblivious to your pain and discomfort all the time we were on Thomas's lands. And for that, Watson, I can only say I'm truly, truly sorry for being such an utter pig to you."

"I forgive you, Holmes,"

"I forgive you too, dearest Watson," Replied Holmes, softly brushing my hair with his hand. "I am so very glad we are both alive and well."

"As am I, Holmes." I answered, taking his free hand in my own before giving it a gentle squeeze.


End file.
